Episodic Literary Magazine

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EPISODIC


ep•i•sod•ic [adjective] divided into separate or tenuously related parts or sections; loosely connected Some events are larger than others, fleshed with more details, seeming to inspire more intrigue, seeming more fit for a story; but when we focus only on those events we cheat ourselves of the fullness of our own lives. Dig in to the smaller events: those we struggle to title, the experiences we tuck away into the corners, the images we witness and move on from in the same passing instant. There are jewels to be found there. As we collect them, we may find that every day is made up of a series of small, easily-missed beauties and insights threaded together by a common miracle: our lives.


Episodic

Issue 3 Spaces


Episodic Issue 3 Spaces Copyright Š July 2013 by Episodic Magazine Artists All rights reserved Founder & Head Editor: Cheyenne Varner Managing Editor: Naomi Zewde Literary Arts Editor: Renia White Visual Arts Editor: Alyson Fraser Cover Design: Cheyenne Varner Cover Photography: Cheyenne Varner Fonts (in order of appearance): Code Light, Goudy Old Style, Great Vibes Episodic Definition: Dictionary.com, LLC Design and Layout: Cheyenne Varner episodicmag.blogspot.com


Portfolios Artists I. Changming Yuan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 II. Natasha Carlos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 III. Jiselle Ann Magbanua . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 IV. Timothy McLafferty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 V. Jessica Barkley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Keep Close Artists I. Shirley Kuo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II. Adrian Ng . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . III. Richard Donnelly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IV. Morgan Lowrey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V. April Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VI. Wiley Reading . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VII. Kari Wergeland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VIII. Ryan Harper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IX. Pete Madzelan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . X. Lila Malone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XI. Trista Mateer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XII. Senyo Ador . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XIII. Ira Joel Haber . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XIV. Anthony Marioni . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XV. Jenna Ray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Changming Yuan


Yu a n

The Moving Spirit the bird is flying so high in the sky, its wings become as blue as heaven its belly grey as a cloud the blue bird vanishes soon into heaven but the grey forgets it is part of a presence embedded in the scene then nothing could occupy that space, and remain there forever

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0 meaning empty (for early indians?) or no entry (to ancient chinese?) definitely, it is no more, or no less, than a placeholder a space between you and me nothing that can be anything except the wheel that keeps our civilization rolling a circle, squeezed to look taller and slenderer a shape, not as round as a hole but it can suck in a whole world o that we were not all living within the circle, so full of voids

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May Seeds of hope, seeds of love Deeply planted since last winter In the fertility of Dreams, expectations All come into blossom In every heart beating against sunlight On every face beaming with smile At every twig reaching into the sky Just when leaves grow fullest, freshest Before they begin to fade, or fail

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Thought Hunting stalking behind it i sneaked into the thick forest where it suddenly vanished i did not know when, even whether it would reappear at all lying long in ambush at the heart of silences i became increasingly aware the jungle has no prey in the first place except hunting per se

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The Information Age far beyond the dark mountains deep in the virgin rain forest there is not a single human being not even a sheltered animal except piranhas, sun bears and an email message recently caught on the web of a shiny spider...

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Natasha Carlos


Carlos

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Carlos

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Carlos

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Carlos

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Carlos

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Jiselle Ann Magbanua


Magbanua

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Magbanua

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Magbanua

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Timothy McLafferty


McLafferty

In the Sun Here is where we live, and the sun paints our table—a yellow clay bowl of oranges, day old bread, and a vase of iris and rose. Some say there should be more, but here nothing is missing.

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Every Shiny Thing Some money gets you the thing you used to have, except it’s not really the thing you used to have and now money is the thing you used to have.

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McLafferty

Bodega Kick Line I will not wait with my six-pack while you take an endless stream of lottery numbers from this cabby here before me. I would wait—if Miles Davis and Tony Williams were on this line playing Agitation. And I would wait too, if William Bronk, David Ignatow, and Cid Corman were here sprouting laurel and speaking in tongues. But until then, I gotta go.

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Enhanced It’s Anavar. That’s a pretty darn good steroid. Clean, don’t shut you down, don’t bloat you up, you keep most of what you get. All the rage for poets these days, big poets, pulling the heavy stuff in the gym. People get out of their way now. No hiding that edge. No more drinking tea and staring from windows.

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McLafferty

A Morning It’s rain now— sounds shift in layers—song sparrows in the trees, a jet, a dog, water drops. Green darkens into June and its heart green. Oh, there goes a truck, the birds don’t care.

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Jessica Barkley


Barkley

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Editor’s Note They took me by the wrists. I thought I was going to my dorm room—to sit down on my bed, to grasp a handful of dark chocolate covered blueberries, to halfwatch something while half-reading for class. You are a hermit, they said, more or less. We are going to make you get out. Come to parties, come to football games, to the club! Oh no, I said. And I yanked back, so hard I almost tripped. Not to the club. A football game would do. We made a compromise, begrudgingly. Begrudgingly, the day of the game I put on my school colors, my sweatshirt, my coat. Thoughtlessly, I took my disposable camera too. I don’t remember if we won. I think we didn’t. I remember the cold, quite clearly. The almost rudely warm glow of the sun on the trees. We stood in the middle area of the bleachers. The field seemed quite small from there. We still complained about how far away the re-play screen was. When our team scored, we threw streamers in our colors, screamed and smiled at each other as though we had also had a hand in what just happened. I remember #27 on the other team was a total jerk. And thinking the exposed trunks of the trees reminded me of pick-up sticks. The boys piled on top of each other and I missed my bed a little bit. It was windy. But at least there was no rain. I remember an odd shiver—a nice feeling—looking beside me left and right. I didn’t want to go. I would have gladly not. And I saw that field again another time when it was warmer and we won. But there is something I will never forget about that day, the way that place looked that one time, the way it felt. It was not the same for any of us, I think—being there. And it will never be the same again. In that I believe we find the essence of any and all spaces. Never the same for anyone. Never the same again. Cheyenne Varner


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Shirley Kuo

tempest here comes the thunderstorm in all its rattling glory, cannons echoing between my rib cage like reminders that midnight will not leave so easily. it is taking the sky by the edges and arching it back until it is splintering and cracking, the seams struggling to contain all of its stars but i, too, can see the gold seeping through the fractures and i, too, am calling wishes upon them. i am collecting all of these fallen stars and i am knitting them into my great-grandmother’s quilt but when the tempest sweeps by me once more i forget and i reach for my father’s battered coat instead. here comes the thunderstorm again, only this time it is the one with stronger bones and i am the one with buckling knees.

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Adrian Ng

Himalayas Today I remembered smiling by the cove where we used to dive and the Himalayas where you said everything seemed like it was touching the moon. Before you became the sea, the sky, and the flowers and how you taught me how to rhyme not with words but with everything else. Like with our bodies. Like with death. Like with life.

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Richard Donnelly I DON’T NEED TO TRAVEL I don’t need to travel I don’t need to see other places other places hold nothing for me what’s different what’s new isn’t there the same office in the same city isn’t she sitting in a cubicle young bright pretty and isn’t there a darling braid in her hair like a schoolgirl and won’t we just meet after work at a bistro on Tenth Street where she tells me how unhappy she is and how her boyfriend has driven her crazy with his sports belching and beer drinking won’t we hold hands won’t we fall in love for an hour before she says

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I don’t think so I never date inside the office I don’t need to travel I don’t need to see other places

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Morgan Lowrey

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April Johnson

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Episodic Wiley Reading

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Kari Wergeland

Houses My poems are about houses: loose wiring without fixtures, toilets that won’t stop running, windows that need washing. I zero in on the unfinished places, the fresh scuff marks I will touch up after the contractor leaves me to unpack my boxes, decorate the brightly painted walls. I write poems about houses: the steel siding from Sears I once pulled off a fishing cottage to discover solid cedar clapboard just waiting for a fresh coat. Yes, green steel siding from Sears covering the crumbling house I left with a few boxes of toys in tow to ride that Greyhound north.

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Ryan Harper

Experience at Princeton Junction I thus express to work among the regulars— who do not duck or grasp their looser properties when earlier expresses zundle loud and hard down the middle tracks without notice (excepting the doppler dialdown: direct commuters flattening the very pitch of trailing airs from capital to capital, Union to Penn, exceptions jarring ordinary air); among the regulars—who never stand in consciousness too near the platform’s edge (sleeper cells, using and fusing the northeast corridor’s compact, well-joined scheme). What is it in me corresponds with them? Assuming the bent gait of stock traders I am I guess one of them after these years, waiting in measured motion for my own express, on the platform of our ordinary lives, pacing often the same pavement, aware of where the doors will open, where the seats are likely empty— well-suited, scrubbed, and licensed for these public cell transactions. Corporate sighs, the clop and thrud of work shoes—only the unbudded ears disaggregate; only the ear unbudded risks disintegration There was the morning when my train struck a woman. Seated in the very front, I heard first the engineer’s swelling screams, as if he were steering his voice to roll back up the doppler-dawn-dial-down,

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trying to prevent what he knew at once to be happening and to have already happened. It was an astronomically mad series of screams—as if to a thousand-year-dead celestial body that yet casts its thousand-year-old light into our present line of sight. I felt a knock so faint, a brake so slight, that but for the engineer’s singular voice I would have thought nothing but ordinary delay. We the regulars looked up. The most regular offered first confirmation: unfortunate, but ordinary during holiday time. The conductor offered second confirmation: there has been a casualty. Timetables folded. I offered myself a final confirmation: my express—causes—casual—ties. I broke out in a cold sweat and became light-headed, in the heat of my spirit. Knowing myself in such events, I leaned against the window and allowed myself to black out. When I awoke, after an unknown time, I felt stronger, as expected. I drank my water. And I looked and I saw the woman behind me sobbing softly; I could not catch her eye. Most were properly somber and silent—not visibly dismayed, foreheads hard and unmarked against the hard words that had passed through the conductor. I could not tell who grieved, exactly, or what grief taught them. They loaded us onto another train—a local, filled already with its own regulars. I could not tell what they knew, except that they had stopped, and we boarded, where there was no platform. By evening’s commute, ordinary timetables had resumed. There are crosswords among the regulars—prelude to labor—to boarding, even: pre-commute, a selfdirected scrawl: parallel play: my morning ruined before real motion on the platform, the brevity and levity (reposing, filigreed remainders) of The Times’ riddles— no characters aligning, vacant boxes, just a single letter for one-down, and not a clue about the puzzle’s theme (whose knowing never helps, occurring to me always near the resolve it would have hastened) as my express approaches, I fold up

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The Times to resume shortly, at will. Not yet accustomed, fully, I looked again and I saw something like corded, living creatures, moving straight ahead, without turning as they moved, on wheels and wheels.

Their appearance

was like gleaming barrels, full of eyes. The burning rail and wire—scorched linearities—I cannot leave my old associations: beyond the narrow corridor, in empty, broad Missouri, that stench always signaled something wrong or wronging: paper by the radiator; dust in the filter; some too-hasty conduct of power-currents; ungrounded, impartial energy consuming small, incidental particles of a Missouri caked in breakdown. Soon an inferno As I looked I saw

emerging beside the living creatures

other figures, each with the face of a human being.

When the living creatures stopped, they stopped,

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For the spirit of the living creatures

was in the figures. a fire in the heartland of a nation caked in breakdown, silty as the Mississippi’s black bottom, where rest the channel cat, long as a man, against old tires, discarded water heaters. I stand yet am hurried I feel myself burning in motion for all the figures of all this country. Morning by morning we wear another face— eagles and oxen. I cannot board today without noting the capital exceptions— inquest on the platform of the ordinary lives: out of my longer vacancies, my monthly pass, to realize my round world cloaked in linen I thus express among the regulars a work pressed for our revising in our commute— I shall be bound with them—I thus express America—a daily motion—a crossword I and you fill out in ink.

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Episodic Lila Malone

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Somewhere on Fairfax The first time you really fall in love You’ll melt somewhere on Fairfax, You’ll be surrounded by Friends Who forgot it was your 18th birthday And he won’t help gather you Like you had thought he would. He’ll smile at you with his coffee eyes As he watches you struggle to Collect the important pieces Before they die underneath hot rubber and passing strangers’ feet. Please sweet child, remember this And learn to stay in one piece. See, you’ve got to learn to survive. Because brown eyed boys who open doors for you and write love poems on cafe napkins Haven’t learnt how to be men yet And will eat you whole, like boys do Because life hasn’t taught them To take their time and enjoy The goods on their plate. Please sweet child, remember this And learn to stay in one piece.

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Trista Mateer

Chesapeake Lightening bugs are the only bugs I’m not afraid to pick up with my hands. There’s some comfort in conditioning as a child; not everything stays with you, but some things do – sometimes the most inexplicable things do. I have turned myself inside out as an adult, tucked away so many of my pieces that I often forget where I’ve left them. I am walking around with parts missing; there is a breeze in my chest like a window left open overnight, a draft I do not know how to keep out

– but it is warm here.

I’ve shed my skin on sun-bleached floorboards, left my lungs in the water too long and I have always come up grinning. Something about summer sun and sea scents has stuck with me for years. There is a calm in my chest when I am here; and I am so often brimming with tumult, bursting at the seams with ferocious unrest. These days I am scared of everything: terrified of talking to strangers, torn in two by checkout lines, tugged around by fears that don’t make sense. On the Bay, my mother told me not to be afraid of anything; and I wasn’t for a long time. I like to remember that.

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Senyo Ador

Englewood. (Chicago) There’s a love story here. A sonnet written by Garfield Hand delivered to 75th street. If you’re quiet enough and pay attention You can catch them necking and holding hands That is if you’re not distracted… Distracted by The breaking. Breaking glass Breaking hearts Breaking news Top Stories Headlines See not everything in Englewood Is teen pregnancies And fed time Liquor Stores Shootouts Winos, Junkies and stress lines The unemployed play the dozens Channeling their inner Pryor Via Peppermint Schnapps and Redd Foxx Self-medicating with laughter And cheeky wit. flipping cousins somersault and sweat small storms unto stained mattresses while Grandmothers

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sip cool iced teas fan the nape of their necks and read out Bible passages. The Green and Red Line Converge on 63rd But are too yellow to touch Shirtless teens play 2 hand Touch on one way streets Near Murray Park Where Roses Well groomed with 40 inch verticals Leapt straight out of the hood And Into addidas Commercials Straight of the hood And into the dreams Of a loving mother And a drill sergeant of a brother Tall boys Thin girls All time quarter backs Fighting to get the order back The Wood had a way of doing things “Yes ma’am” “No sir” “Please” “Thank You” “Excuse me” Let me help you with that… Nobody’s Gramma ever Carried their own groceries home. Big sisters With expert fingers Threw baby sisters hair into Pony tails and locks Block parties

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Impromptu picnics Craps and cee lo A trio of drunken uncles Snap back into a doo wop set Their songs drip caramel sweet Onto ice cream cones Clutched in the fists Of the young gifted and Black as the night The original gangstas quit the fast life and married the women that used to do their algebra homework. Now they take care of home first And drop math like molasses on hard heads thirsty for quick answers. No words. Just these here records. The Classics.

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Ira Joel Haber

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Anthony Mariani

Amare Clothes ripple on the lines, and Uncle Luigi is on the porch, slurping his tiny-cupped espresso while reading Unione, holding the entire paper open with only one hand The summer afternoon breeze engulfs our careless brown faces –– aflame, we forget to resist In the driveway, Daddy and Leonardo Jr. appraise the glowing black Caddy and discuss driving potentialities, remaining generally at odds –– what’s a-matter, black socks and sandals?! The superficiality is always adjustable but necessary Leonardo Sr. rage-smokes Ovid hovers, and cousin Dave, brown pompadour high, smile wide, comes rolling across the lawn, scattering the bocce balls while framed by the succulent trees, and Aunt Louisa will make so many demands she will be rechristened as The Fun Nazi, and cousins Lisa and Angela have begun singing an a cappella version of “Where You There?” as Uncle Gino gets comfy with the chianti

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The Fun Nazi sighs, Another? The velleity returns the entire house to chaos No translation instructs the sauce that curves ’round Nonna’s wooden spoon The Donizetti flows naturally through the heat Ah, mes amis! rings throughout the house and spills into the backyard every time the white storm-door opens Unione questions Reagan’s religion –– he’s not Catholic –– asking, What determines the fate of a person’s face? A dumb poem by a young boy who doesn’t know anything is the right answer The Fun Nazi will ask why we continue to sing Because we can “Where you there when they nailed him to the tree? Where you there when they nailed him to the tree?” Who’s going to dress the Lord’s wounds? Nonna With what? Her mopina The bocce balls form constellations Aquarius materializes on the lawn Ovid has Orpheus sing Gino has instructed me to bear unto him another bottle

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Mummy is annoyed Gino’s body has begun to sag in that angry way “Amare” is the Italian word for love, a narrative that courses through the blood that feeds the miracle and inhales Luckys and Camels More wine, for in amare you can get lost, battered about by all of the sloppy tongues, and each utterance carries within its letters an alert melancholy, the wet sparkle in everyone’s eyes, sharing with the word the Italianness of “family” Observe the pasta: It glistens as it oozes from the pastamaker –– a silver mechanical miracle which fits on the table –– the noodles catch the light to embody the light –– long, ribbed, yellow rectangles pulsate Pull back the curtain to see the pear tree wresting sunlight from the clouds that gather like Daddy’s sheep in Pacentro The children aren’t worried no one has slept in 40 days and 40 nights, refusing to cleave to demands

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Every summer the sun returns first as a pear later as an orchid Jupiter lowers himself to alight upon the fig tree, the wake of his wings blowing back David’s high hair The god’s feathers are green, white, and red He’s still in relatively good shape, though “Where you there when they crucified our lord? Where you there when they crucified our lord?” Jupiter shakes his head in response, inspiring us to gather in a circle, hold hands, and alternately sway and stomp our feet Aquarius forms in our eyes And then we laugh Jupiter was gone for 10 years There will be photos, taken mainly by Aunt Velia but also by cousin Rosemarie, when the “amare” becomes lofty Gino casually begs for more vino Nonna dips The Big Dipper into her saucepan and tastes Ah! Magnifico! Only 50 more years The Fun Nazi goes after bocce,

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which leads to Frisbee, which leads to wiffleball Daddy, Uncle Luigi, and Uncle Pietro pluck pears and figs from the trees, each seed a debt to be paid again and again Eliana points skyward at the hanging boccino Moon, she says. That’s-a right, pupa, Uncle Pietro replies. Moon. The yard goes on forever “Whoah ohh oh-oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble ...” The table has been set Wine, water, and Cherokee Red fill the glasses frosted white with maple leaves, and in the center of the table steam rises from bowls of fettuccine with clam sauce and of lasagna Jupiter sits at one end of the table, Daddy at the other –– Nonna sits to Daddy’s left Jupiter cares not Ovid begins the prayer, “Bless us, O, Lord, and these-a our gifts, which we are about to receive from-a thy bounty –– or, actually, from-a the bounty brought-a to us by a-Leonardo, who was only twelve but, like-a a man, took over the

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house-a-hold when his father left to fight against the soldiers from-a this-a great country –– through Christ-a our lord, amen.” Beyond the lone kitchen window the clothes could be seen flapping in the breeze created by the bocce balls’ orbits, patterns spiraling in harmony and out of sight

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Jenna Ray

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Artist Bios Changming Yuan, 5-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (Leaf Garden Press, 2009) and Landscaping (Flutter Press, 2013), holds a PhD in English and tutors in Vancouver, where he co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan (poetrypacific. blogspot.ca). Recently interviewed by PANK, Yuan has had poetry appear in Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine, Threepenny Review and over 700 others across 27 countries. Natasha Carlos is an analog photographer based in Southern California. The New Jersey native graduated from American University in Washington, D.C. with a B.A. in Public Communication. Natasha curates Cut & Paste, a tumblog that highlights original collage and mixed media artists. More of her work can be seen on her website or blog. Jiselle Ann Magbanua’s work recognizes its fragility and temporality. Memory is the platform she builds upon, using ideas and notions of remembering and forgetting. She fluently conveys her visual language through the use of pencil, watercolor, and ink. The raw, handmade quality of these mediums allow the beauty of imperfection to seep into the work- which mimics the flawed nature of memories and reality. Timothy McLafferty lives in NYC and works as a drummer. He has played on Broadway in Urinetown, Grey Gardens, and many other interesting places. His work currently appears in many fine journals, including Forge, Painted Bride Quarterly, Pearl, and Portland Review. See more at timmclafferty.com. Jessica Barkley is a college student in Georgia studying psychology. She enjoys making art as a way to relieve stress and portray things she cannot say. More of her work can be found on her personal blog: debilitating.tumblr.com. Shirley Kuo is an aspiring poet currently residing in California. Her work has previously been published by the Young Adult Review Network, The Cuckoo Quarterly, The Toucan Magazine, and others. She breathes for books, early sunrises, and thunderstorms. Adrian Ng is a film student from Dunedin, New Zealand. He writes songs for the band Trick Mammoth. He’s not really sure what he’s doing. Find out more about him at trickmammoth.tumblr.com. Richard Donnelly has published work in Chronogram and Queen’s Quarterly. He slaves away as an accounts manager in a large Midwestern company. Slave might be too harsh a word, but the coffee is very bad. Mr. Donnelly’s first book, The Melancholy MBA (www.


themelancholymba.com), is published by Brick Road Poetry Press of Columbus, Georgia. Morgan Lowrey is 15 years old and lives in Bethesda, Maryland. April Johnson is a filmmaker and so far she knows she has a path to follow. She carries a camera and on the strength of that sentence, she hopes to seem completely anomalous. Probably doesn’t. Wiley Reading is a twenty-something non-profit goon living and working in DC. She would like to thank her long career in public school for the opportunities it gave her to develop her drawing skills--there was just no other way than drawing to survive endless lectures on Nathaniel Hawthorne and the Pythagorean Theorum. Wiley is a regular contributor at Disrupting Dinner Parties, and more of her art can be found at whatworksforyou.tumblr.com. Kari Wergeland is the author of Voice Break, as well as The Ballad of the New Carissa and Other Poems. She wrote a children’s book review column for The Seattle Times, which ran monthly for 11 years. Wergeland recently earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Pacific University. She works as a librarian for Cuyamaca College in El Cajon, CA, and lives part-time on the Oregon Coast. For more information, please refer to her website: kariwergeland.wordpress.com. Ryan Harper is a graduate student in Princeton University’s department of religion, where he is writing an ethnography on contemporary southern gospel music. His poetry chapbook, Memphis Left at Cairo, will be published by Finishing Line Press in 2013. Some of his recent poems and essays have appeared in Broad River Review, Potomac Review, The Appendix, The Other Journal, Sugar House Review, and elsewhere. Pete Madzelan has fiction in The Dying Goose; forthcoming in Poydras Review. Photography in Epiphany (epiphmag.com), Pachinko, Aperion Review, BRICKrhetoric, Foliate Oak, Cactus Heart, convergence: journal of poetry and art, and Vine Leaves Literary Journal; forthcoming in Bellingham Review, San Pedro River Review and Petrichon Review. Has had fiction and poetry published in literary journals, including Cigale Literary Magazine, Bellowing Ark, Wind. Lila Malone an 18 year old fluorescent being from Corona, California. She likes sunflowers, chocolate covered almonds and knowing the difference. Lila has been published in 2 different assorted poetry books and featured on a couple of blogs. She says she’s only in her caterpillar phase. For more from Lila check out her blog www.goldenmoonphases. tumblr.com or Instagram: @florescentbeige. Trista Mateer is a writer masquerading as a waitress somewhere around the Maryland/ Pennsylvania line. More of her work can be found at: tristamateer.tumblr.com.


Senyo Ador was raised between Accra, Ghana and Chicago’s western suburbs. He was heavily influenced by Nikola Tesla, the pioneering electrical engineer/showman and langston hughes, the social activist and jazz poet. Senyo is now using the power of poetry and storytelling to magnetize audiences the world over into acting on causes both locally and remote. Ira Joel Haber was born and lives in Brooklyn New York. He is a sculptor, painter, book dealer, photographer and teacher. His work has been seen in numerous group shows both in USA and Europe and he has had nine one-man shows including several retrospectives of his sculpture. Currently he teaches art at the United Federation of Teachers Retiree Program in Brooklyn. Anthony Mariani is a Columbia University grad (J’98) who makes his living as a journalist. He has just completed his first work of long-form fiction, The Bloomfield Diaries, a hybrid novel excerpted in Smallwork, Ben Marcus’ literary magazine, and in No Record Press’ annual Red Anthology. Anthony’s fiction and poetry have also appeared in Calamari Press’ literary magazine, Sleepingfish, and in The Foliate Oak. He lives with his lovely wife Dana in Fort Worth, where he is associate editor of Fort Worth Weekly, one of the last remaining independently owned alt-weeklies in the country. Jenna Ray is 19 years old and living in the lovely Sydney of Australia. These drawings are her way of saying all the things she could never verbally say. You can find more of her work on bitterfaces.tumblr.com.



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